Homecoming
by vin.fireclaw
Summary: Returning from their harrowing mission, Christa and Ymir find comfort in being diametrically similar. They find in each other's imperfect guises the acceptance they crave, and build together a shared moment of belonging.


**A/N: **This fic's written for the sole purpose of me trying to balance character exposition with smut (and the fact that Y/C has become second only to my ShizNats OTP). As I tend to write character-centric stories, I thought it'd be an interesting challenge to juxtapose the intricacies required for a complex character sketch with the unrestrained emotions of having the sex! So yes, I wrote this story for purely literary and academic reasons. You read right. This is written entirely FOR LITERATURE!

Alas, Literature, I have failed you because I don't think this piece lives up to my original vision. I hate the pacing, the motifs aren't as realized I want them to be, and blah blah existential perfectionist writer angst.

**Warnings**: This fic contains spoilers up to chapter 46 of the manga. It also goes without saying that if you're underage, your country prohibits it, and/or the thought of lesbian sex irks you for whatever reason, you should press the back button and go on your merry way.

**Disclaimer: **SnK isn't mine. And as of 7/15/13, I've gone through the fic again and did some minor tweaks to improve the pacing and some other stuff because, well, I'm a perfectionist. I doubt this is the last time too since, well, I'm a perfectionist.

* * *

**Homecoming**

Kisses rain down the side of her neck and Ymir can't help smirking as they fuel the dueling fires of her amusement and her lust. All of this is sparked by the tiny girl of contradiction who is kneeling in between her legs and has captured Ymir in her diminutive, yet powerful arms. That girl is too absorbed in her administration to notice her companion's good humor.

The moment they entered their shared room in the barracks, Ymir had found herself assaulted by a sudden onslaught of passion coming from the girl who is eager to be reunited with her lips. Now, in the safety of their shared space, Christa's relief has been translated into long, insistent kisses she can no longer hold back. There is a frenzy boiling in her that she can no longer contain. After all, how could she? So much has happened since the last time they were in this room. Their long-guarded secrets have been revealed; the circumstances which caused their separation threatened to change everything between them and, when the girl thinks of how Ymir had almost been lost to her, she—

"I missed you," Christa says with a sigh as she rests her head on Ymir's shoulder.

"I wasn't gone for that long thanks to you. That was stupid, by the way. What were you thinking even—

Wide blue eyes narrow and the girl pulls her dark-haired compatriot down to meet her glare. "I mean it, Ymir. When they captured you I…I don't know what I would've done if I didn't go after you. What if I never saw you again? I couldn't stand it. I…just couldn't stand that thought."

Ymir's not the comforting type, but even she can't stomach the haunted look in Christa's eyes. So she draws the other girl closer and reassures her with almost gentle kisses. And from that moment on, whatever pretense for their lovemaking is cast away like the clothes that now lay haphazardly discarded on the floor; they are the unwanted nuisances that stand between them and their fervid reunion.

When the blonde-haired girl tries to gain more access to Ymir's collarbone, her impatient tug causes the taller girl's shirt to rip. Ymir chuckles at the sight though the sound of her mirth is quickly dwarfed by a decidedly unladylike growl of frustration. The younger girl grabs a fistful of her torn shirt and yanks down on it to claim Ymir's lips with a soldier's diligence and then proceeds to ravish her mouth with a warrior's zeal. Ymir welcomes the fallen noble's tongue with her own while her hands caress the other girl's taut stomach before traveling up to her biceps in order to marvel at the feeling of battle-hardened muscles that lie sheathed in the soft skin of a maiden. Ymir familiarizes herself with the body of the person who had first introduced herself as Christa Renz, immediately realizing as she did back then what lay between the other's saintly aura and false name. Ymir, after all, knows better than anyone what it means to straddle the boundary between two seemingly incompatible worlds and has an appetite for tearing through deceit and swallowing liars whole. She knows—just as, or even more than Christa herself—what it means to exist between being and not being something and someone. Unlike her beloved, however, Ymir wears the contradiction as proudly as she does her own name.

With a well-practiced twist of her fingers, Ymir snaps the clasp of Christa's bra and slides it off when the connection between their lips and bodies ebbs with the flow of their desire. The freckled titan notes with satisfaction the wild eyes and frenzied gasps of the human in her arms, and she sees in Christa all the hypocrisy that the act of living embodies: she sees the ruthless choices that they've both made to survive in a world that denounces their existence. And she admires in those dilated pupils the same defiance she herself holds towards being cast into a cursed fate and the fury that comes from spiting it all in order to live.

The sight of Christa's bare chest heaving leaves Ymir transfixed at the vision. Her head dips down in devotion as she captures a hardened nipple in her mouth. Breathy sighs to turn into hushed groans as Christa's petite hands comb desperately through dark hair as she presses more of herself against Ymir; she grinds her svelte form against the other girl's lips in a wanton attempt to gain more release. But Ymir is nothing if not a master tease. She hums to herself as she nips at her longtime companion's breasts, goading more sounds out of Christa as she steadies the shorter girl's hips with her hands.

Christa moans again; she squeezes her eyes shut as an uncontrolled spasm ransacks her body. Ymir's barrette is flung to the ground when Christa's hands jerk violently through the smirking girl's hair.

"Ymir," the fair solider warns through a sigh though her caution is delightfully unheeded. Her tan partner imparts butterfly-light kisses on her lips, cheeks, and eyelids in playful obeisance to the descended goddess. Her deity wants none of it and instead purposefully digs her knee into the brunette's center, which causes the mischievous twinkle in Ymir's eyes to widen into astonishment. Once more the alleged figure of purity's mouth crashes against unsuspecting lips and she pushes Ymir's back into the bed with the weight of her deceptively strong body.

In between impassioned kisses, Ymir guides the younger girl's fingers with the same measured and calculated care she did during their trainee days. She doesn't so much help Christa as much as indirectly assist her with the removal of her torn shirt and bra. She then rewards the girl by hugging their bodies close together. However, it is Ymir herself who is instantly lost in the sensation of their bare skin against one another's and, in that rare moment, she looks up at Christa with open wonder and affection. She reaches up to brush strands of golden hair away from Christa's face. The act was far gentler than it had any right to be, and the outcast is thankful that the younger girl is too lost in her arousal to be cognizant of the act.

Ymir had first sought this girl out of a mixture of curiosity and need. What she found surpassed her wildest imagination. This girl in her arms is everything and yet nothing like what Ymir expected to find when she first heard the story of her own wretched life paralleled so perfectly in another's existence. She found herself gladly sacrificing her hard-won independence and never regretting a second of it. Her freedom meant nothing to her if she couldn't share it with someone who could understand it. Besides, how could she regret her choices when every act she made is matched and paid in kind with equal devotion? How could she when she found someone willing to confront her on the same wavelength, easily trading her insults with refutation of her character, and the easy physicality that they shared with each other? Even though they squirreled away their respected secrets, there was always this understanding between them and now—

Ymir feels the calloused fingers of the 10th ranked member of the 104th Trainee Corps as they feverishly travel across her body. She knows full well that before the girl took on her _nom de guerre_ and laid her hands on the harsh metal of the 3DMG, the cruelest object the former successor of the House of Reiss touched were the ivory of piano keys. Ymir has personally seen to—and invested a great deal of time—into training the body that now convulses above her. Through a mixture of rude taunts, rough instruction, and half-hearted words of approval that masked her surging admiration and pride, Ymir had overseen the development of the once-soft noble into a one of the best trainees of their year. She witnessed the exact moment when that girl's hopelessly pure countenance learned to steel itself with a soldier's cold impartiality. Yet what Ymir sees in the illegitimate child's eyes is not the faded glory of innocence lost, but the brilliantly blue fire of a purpose gained.

Indeed, Christa's eyes are illuminated in her single-minded want and Ymir knows better than to attempt to deter other girl's specific brand of stubbornness; she is well aware of how unstoppable Christa's sense of determination is when her mind is set. Ymir thus happily allows her hands, still interlocked with Christa's, to be moved down and laid on top of smaller girl's back. Her hands languidly travel down before she tears through final wall between them. She smiles at the wetness that immediately trickles down her stomach.

"Someone's excited," she jeers.

The only answer she receives from Christa is a bite at her ear. "Stop playing around," her angelic companion commands.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll—uhh..." Amusement falls from her face and Ymir exhales sharply. Words are lost to incoherent gasps as elegantly formed hands decidedly manhandle her breasts. Ymir thrashes against cotton sheets when a wet pink tongue trails up the slope of her neck and cries out when white teeth bite possessively down.

Ymir groans; all she can do is focus on the sensation that sends both her arousal and self-preservation into flames. Christa is by nature a straightforward person. Even beyond her unfortunate conception, she was found to be an unsuitable successor to her family because she possessed neither the mind nor the stomach to succeed in political theater. However, much to Ymir's delight, all of this translated into her noble-errant becoming more and more demanding as the night went on, lavishing upon her lover with passion unadulterated. Ymir's breath grows ragged as the tiny blonde leaves a trail of scalding wet kisses down her lithe form. The titan bites back a guttural scream when the human's pink tongue dances between her legs. She squirms helplessly as she is enthusiastically devoured.

Ymir's eyes close forcefully as she loses control of her writhing body. Her trembling hand snakes down to press the blonde encouragingly closer as she feels herself being lapped, back and forth, back and forth—again and again like waves crashing again and again upon sun-kissed tanned shores. She feels herself drawing closer and closer to that final release. As she gets closer, however, the motion comes to an abrupt halt. Ymir's eyelids flutter hazily open, and what she sees causes her body to shudder and flush awake with energy. Electricity crackles through her until she can feel every hair on her body stand at the sight before her eyes.

There, on that supposedly more innocent brow, is her own smug expression reflected back at her and delicate lips curled in perfect replication of her own trademark smirk.

"Someone's excited."

There's a feral snarl and before Christa knows it the world spins and she feels herself being lifted into the air and dragged back up against Ymir's body and into a bruising kiss. Before she can further respond, three fingers slide roughly into her and Ymir's other hand presses firmly down on the back of her thigh, simultaneously preventing Christa from escaping her pumping digits while Ymir rubs herself against the captured limb. Christa's hips buck uncontrollably at sudden convergence and she cries out.

"Ymir," the would-be goddess groans as she instinctively impales herself against those furious hands, "Ymir…fuck."

"Language, Lady Reiss," the sarcastic titan growls huskily as every move Christa makes reverberates through her very core.

Recognition flashes in the human's eyes. A moan escapes her mouth. She's never heard her true surname spoken with such unbridled want. The world comes into focus; she remembers all that she is, and she can feel with increasing clarity the fingers that stir within her. Unable to stand the attention, the once-noble throws herself into Ymir, and offers her entire being to the one who's swallowed her whole.

Ymir readily drinks in every little twitch, cry, and flicker of emotion that comes from Christa with half-lidded eyes, noting with satisfaction how alive the girl looks with her hair so tangled and mussed, her eyes bright with lust, and her body slick from exertion as every one of her muscles seems to strain and cry out in delight. She sees in this bouncing girl everything that the other trainees have missed. They called her a goddess—an idol— without seeing her self-serving martyrdom. If she was a figure of divinity, she would be a hell-pointed angel, armed with good intentions meant to bring her and everyone near her to a glorious demise. The other trainees called Eren the Deathseeker, not knowing there was another more befitting of the moniker. And while Ymir has done her best to focus Christa on living, she has no contention with sending the girl hurtling closer and closer to _la petite mort_.

Ymir watches as the titles, the perceptions—the expectations others had forced upon Christa—fall away as her own barriers crumble. To her, Christa is no longer the idol of the 104th Trainee Squad, she is no longer a soldier well-versed in the art of killing, she's no longer the bastard heir of the noble house of Reiss, she is no longer some pseudo religious figure of purity—she is no one's goddess—that girl simply _is_. And what Ymir sees is enthralling; in her broken facade that girl is beautiful; she exists as she is solely in this moment, more solid and masterly sculpted than Galatea come to life.

Ymir buries her face in the tangled hair of her beloved as she quivers desperately closer to oblivion. "Come for me, Historia," she pleads just as much for her own sake as for the person she now devotes her entire being to.

The sound of her real name uttered by her partner causes Historia's spinning world to suddenly stop. Dilated pupils contract and she lifts herself up to meet Ymir's eyes. What she finds reflected there is everything that she's ever craved: love; empathy; approval; companionship; acceptance—belonging—it's all too much for her; she instinctively wants to repay it in kind. She moves in for a final kiss before her insides clench and she comes with a cry.

Ymir's body soon spasms in response to the pressure as she reaches her own apex. The titan's vision erupts into the whiteness as she meets yet another—albeit more welcomed—death.

They sink into the bed once more, panting and basking in their shared euphoria. And in that moment, their flawed existences mend harmoniously together and their bodies melt seamlessly into each other's curves. The transient now they share is perfect in all gloriously realized imperfection. They are home.


End file.
